Understanding
by lostatseanomore
Summary: Who knows what would have happened had we not met that fateful night. I don't. Maybe he would have become…who he is without me. But I'm glad it happened. I'm glad we met and our destinies intertwined, became one. IchigoxRukia


**Ok, I promise I'm still working on Coming Together, but reading the latest chapter of Bleach, I was inspired by the artwork on page two. It blew my mind. Be sure to check it out, it's amazing. (Here's the link, just take out the spaces: **http:/ manga. bleachexile. com/ bleach-chapter-429-page-2. html**) Just a quick one-shot. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Neither Bleach nor its characters belong to me**

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I know people look at my life as if it were something strange. I guess in many ways it is. I have hardly lived the normal life of a shinigami—as normal as our lives can be anyway. My childhood, followed by my curious adoption into a noble family, does not help the situation any. But people—whether they are my friends or not—still cannot help but wonder. For some reason, it puzzles them. I guess I cannot blame them—but I have also stopped trying to explain myself to them. They don't understand, and I don't expect them to, not anymore. I'm just okay with the fact that they—my friends especially—accept it: that this is how I've chosen to live my life. And I'm happy. Very happy.

For some reason, the strangest oddity is my love for Kurosaki Ichigo, the ryoka, the part-shinigami, the part-hollow, the vizard, the whatever-else-people-have-labeled-him-as. Even now, years after the war has ended and peace has descended and I have chosen the way _I want to live out the rest of my life_, people still ask me "why?"

How am I supposed to respond? What are they even asking? Why him? Or why have I chosen to live as a human? Or why I gave up a promising future in the Gotei 13? "Why?" is too broad a question.

Perhaps I did "give up" a lot to be with him, but wouldn't you? Wouldn't you at least try to be with the man you loved?

In my mind—and heart—I haven't sacrificed anything. No, I've gained so much being with that man.

I think sometimes people get too caught up in what they've seen and what they've heard—especially in regards to Ichigo's battle personalities. I think people are frightened by how powerful he truly is. It is misplaced fear, but I can see where they are coming from on a certain level.

I think what separates myself from others—and brings me closer to him—is the fact that I know him. I _know_ him. Inside and out. I know the real Ichigo, the one who loves his sisters fiercely and still carries the guilt of his mother's death; the one who is intelligent and capable and loyal to a fault; the one who would go to the ends of the earth for his friends, for me, for our children.

I also know who he was. Even if it was just for a moment, and even if he already had his own dormant shinigami powers, I got to see Ichigo before it all happened. I got to see him when he was just an average, fifteen year old high school boy…who happened to see spirits. I got to see him when, although he hid behind that mask of a scowl, his forehead wasn't eternally pensive. I knew him, if only for a brief night, before he began carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

It pains me, sometimes, to think of his transformation. In recent years, I've spent more time thinking about it, about the radical changes he has gone through. And, though he'd scoff at me for thinking so, I blame myself. Yes, I love the man he is—with all my heart—but I know, deep, deep down, that he might have had a chance at a normal life if we had never met. It makes me sick to my stomach, the thought of never meeting the love of my life, the reason for my existence, but I can't help but wonder: would he have been better off without me?

Watching him evolve over the years, from boy to man, from human to…Ichigo…

I did that. It's my fault he's had to fight these inner battles and bear this huge responsibility. Sometimes, the guilt just eats away at my insides, threatening to tear me apart. I'll squeeze my eyes shut when he's gone at night and, instead of worrying about him, I'll think of his face, his youthful, innocent face, the way it was the night we met.

He and I both know that some think his power is one of monsters. We have given up arguing with them. No one understands. No one. Why should they? They fear what they do not understand, what they are not familiar with. I know how much he struggles with his inner hollow and the pains he goes through to maintain the balance of human, shinigami, and hollow. He downplays it, but I can see it.

Sometimes, when he's sleeping, I reach to run my fingertips across his forehead, desperate to smooth the lines of worry that should not be there. He does a really good job of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders by himself, but I have made it my priority to share that burden with him. I am, after all, his wife. He does not have to do it alone.

I hold him during his night terrors and pretend they didn't happen the next morning. I make excuses to our children until they're old enough to understand. I cook until he eats and bother him until he sleeps and I will continue to do so for as long as he needs me to. I kiss him every sunrise, grateful and thankful he is at my side, he is mine, he loves me.

Someone once asked me if I loved him because I felt guilty for what I'd "done to him," and I was appalled. The insinuation was that Ichigo is who he is because of me. While that may be true in some regards, Ichigo is the man that he is—with or without me. But I know that I, however, am the person that I am _because of him_; I am the woman, the fighter, the sister, the friend, the lover, the wife, the mother that I am because of him. Without him, I would be nothing.

Relief courses through me when that scowl falls off his face in cherished moments of complete happiness: when he's with our children; during a quiet evening at home; when we make love.

He caught me, once, in a moment of reflection with my secret baggage, and, with his strong hands firmly gripping my shoulders, he kissed me. And kissed me. And kissed me. Until I "came to my senses," he held and kissed me and assured me that in no way was I to feel responsible, that our love and bond would be something the two of us didn't fully comprehend at times, but it was real. More real than any tangible thing in his world or in mine.

Who knows what would have happened had we not met that fateful night. I don't. Maybe he would have become…who he is without me. But I'm glad it happened. I'm glad we met and our destinies intertwined, became one.

People can question us all they want. My point is: I don't. I don't question "us." I don't ask why or try to reason the logistics of it all. I have learned to accept this all-too-rare gift—and every complicated facet of our relationship—and I plan to cling to him the rest of my life.


End file.
